


Itchy Fingers

by Trojie



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Kilts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-23
Updated: 2010-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:18:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Also known as: 'The pipeband AU'. Arthur has a bit of a thing for the new drummer in the band.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itchy Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> This is, *cough*, all the fault of misswinterhill and her extremely awesome ballet-dancing AU. That is my story and I am sticking to it! Also because of the _Kinkme Merlin_ prompt 'Arthur/Merlin - kilt!sex'.
> 
> Beta-read by Ineptshieldmaid who marshalled my punctuation, checked my glossary and made sure there was actually an ending.

'All right, all right people, calm down,' Uther, the pipe-major, says tightly. It's stupidly sticky-hot, and the cicadas have been driven mad by all the competition, and really, whose idea was it to wear _woollen skirts_ (and Arthur knows he'd get hit by at least thirteen ballistic drumsticks if he said that out loud) in the _summer_?

This is Arthur's twelfth Nationals. He's twenty-four, and he _knows_ he's shit-hot right now. Standing right on the edge of the circle just now, up against the barriers, were most of the pipe-corps of the Police band, who're pretty much a shoo-in to win grade one, and he knows they want him. Not that he's preening or anything. The set was good. The set was very, very good. Arthur loves a 6/8 march, loves the way the swing of it sets you up for the strathspey and then the reel. They're playing _so well_ this season ...

'That was sloppy,' Uther's continuing, and Arthur rolls his eyes. His father's 'sloppy' is 'holy shit, that was together' to anyone else in grade four, but oh well. 'Tenors, I wasn't feeling it,' he adds.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur can see the new tenor, Merlin, scratch the back of his head with a timp stick and smirk. He's been in the band six months now, six long months in which Arthur has valiantly been trying not to be too eager to get to know him. Bands run on gossip just as much as they run on tea, whiskey, cunningly-hidden corks and waxed hemp, and if anyone caught a sniff, even the very tiniest _sniff_ that Arthur had a thing for a fellow bandsman, his life would not be worth _living_ for, basically, the next eighty years.

But Merlin's tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed ... he smiles a lot, and he's got these _hands_ , they're just ... _magic hands_ , Arthur calls them, in the very depths of the privacy of his own head. Merlin looks amazing when he flourishes, which he does, at every damned opportunity, like a pair of fluffy red-and-white-topped timp sticks don't draw attention to his biteable wristbones ...

Arthur tries not to watch Merlin too much, because damn, there's something about a lanky bloke in a kilt, but he's only human. Sometimes he can't help himself.

Morgana takes this opportunity to smack Arthur on the back of the head and he can't retaliate because Gwen suddenly has her hands down the back of his kilt. He squeals in a manly, _manly_ fashion, the pitch of which is helped considerably into the register most commmonly used by the Bee Gees by the fact that Gwen's purpose in molesting him in public (with cold fingers) is to yank his boxer shorts up.

'We are being judged on _dress_ today, Arthur,' she reminds him sweetly and matter-of-factly. 'If you've got to wear your lucky Bugs Bunny boxers you could at least pull them up high enough that we don't lose points.

'And who tied your brogues?' Morgana asks, inspecting Arthur's shoelaces in a manner that makes him wish it was still permitted to carry a sgian dubh in the socks, because he feels strongly like stabbing someone. Preferably her, although himself would be a close and desirable second. 'Did you have your eyes shut or did you just let Leon do it?'

Leon, who rather overdid it last night, waves shamefacedly and blearily from the other side of the circle. 'No, I tied them,' Arthur growls.

'Come on,' Uther says. 'It's hot today, people. We need to keep on top of the tuning,' and that's Arthur's cue to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of 'When The Battle's O'er', which he plays, as usual, with a precision born of ten years practice, and feels blindingly envious of the drummers, who don't have to tune, and can therefore wander away and sprawl in the tiny patch of shade underneath the nearest tree. Merlin lies down completely with a look of bliss on his face. Damn him.

There comes the familiar sideways-jerking feeling of Uther adjusting Arthur's drones, which always slightly wakes Arthur up from his contemplative tuning-up-daze, and then eventually somewhere in the middle of 'Colin's Cattle' Uther steps into the middle of the circle and brings them all to a halt.

Gaius, the drum-major, walks purposefully over. 'We're due at point A in five,' he says, adjusting his glengarry, which reminds Arthur to haul his own one out of his belt. 'Jackets _on_ , everyone, we still have the medley to go,' he adds, to universal groans, and then swaggers off to tell the drum corps the same thing.

Watching Merlin pull on a military jacket is another thing Arthur should stop paying so much attention to. Shoulderblades. They should be illegal.

'I'm going to have to watch you like a hawk at Guinness Club tonight, aren't I,' Morgana says, fiddling with the zip in her Canmore bag. 'Let's not have a repeat of the Sophia incident.'

'Morgana, I was sixteen.'

'Yes, you were sixteen, she was a tramp-'

'Good drummer though,' Arthur feels honour-bound to point out.

'- _mediocre_ drummer, and you made me promise never ever to let you do that ever again.' Morgana glares at Arthur and then at Merlin again. 'And you're looking at him like you looked at her.'

'That was eight years ago, Morgana, give me a bit of credit.'

'Fat chance.'

Arthur tries another tack. 'Leave your bag alone, you'll make it leak.'

'Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs,' Morgana retorts. 'And stop changing the subject. You're _pining_.'

'I am not pining!'

'Fine, you're ogling. If you want my advice -'

Arthur doesn't, which is why he's very grateful when Gaius forms them up for the medley. He's in the back rank keeping the sound up and keeping an eye on Leon and Owain, which has a lot of benefits but also the one slightly bad side-effect of meaning that Merlin is marching right behind him.

Thank God Arthur doesn't get nervous.

Also thank God for drone-stoppers.

They form their circle when they get into the second part of the march - 'Teribus' (yawn, but they've got new kids playing with them this year) - and the drummers move gracefully into their own little ring, and dammit, there is Merlin's arse, right there.

Arthur pointedly turns himself inwards so he can keep Uther's fingers in sight. So that he doesn't keep Merlin's behind in sight. And also so that he stays in time, or whatever.

Yes, the fact that this is Arthur's twelfth Nationals and he's getting a bit blase doesn't show at _all_.

They finish on a Matheson tune - 'Flee the Glen' - which Arthur loves, and the final note rings out so clear and cuts so crisp that Arthur can't stop himself grinning stupidly around his blowpipe, which loses him some air. And again, thank God for drone-stoppers.

Merlin catches his eye again as they reform, and grins as well.

***

Guinness Club takes place, as usual, at the closest Irish bar to their motel, in this case the dark wood-panelled J. J. Murphy's two streets away. They commandeer a number of barrel-tables and order a round, sinking the ridiculous stout with reactions mixing from bliss and relief to not-very-well-hidden disgust. But it's the night of the set and medley, and it's traditional. Street march tomorrow morning, with a horrendous hangover, and then the massed bands at the end, swapping instruments and deliberately mixing up ranks with all the other bands because everyone's got a headache and it's not like anyone in the stands really follows what's going on anyway, and everyone's playing a different version of Scotland the Brave to everyone else ... none of those things would feel _right_ without the after-effects of a bellyful of Guinness swirling through the system, so Arthur forces down two pints of the stuff for the sake of manly tradition. His next drink is a blessedly light-on-the-stomach and flavoursome rum and Coke.

He long ago stopped being embarrassed about the fact that Morgana and Gwen habitually make it to five pints each. He's still a better piper, and he'll feel better in the morning, at least slightly.

He can't help but notice the fact that Merlin dutifully downs one pint and no more, switching to Kilkenny as soon as his beverage-ly duty is done. He also can't help notice that Merlin clearly belongs to the school of staying in uniform all day, just like he does, although Merlin has ditched his tie and brogues in favour of leaving his shirt open and wearing a pair of ratty and comfortable-looking trainers instead - Arthur just dumped his unnecessary jacket and bloody irritating glengarry at the motel before coming out.

Eventually Morgana and Gwen challenge Gaius and Geoffrey to a game of pool - Morgana grew up in this band just like Arthur, and she's been playing pool in bars since she was eleven and just tall enough to actually make a shot over a full-sized table, and she never misses an opportunity for more practice - leaving the two seats between Arthur and Merlin vacant. So much for Morgana saving him from himself. Arthur makes a decision, and hops stools over to the tenor.

'Hey,' Merlin says, grinning, as Arthur sits down. He twists in his seat so that they're facing each other properly. 'Not playing pool?'

'Last time I played pool against Morgana I was only saved from a down-trou because I was wearing a kilt at the time,' Arthur says, laughing. 'As it was she still made me flash the rest of the band.'

Merlin takes a lazy swig of his beer, lipping the top of the bottle and running his gaze down from Arthur's throat to his kilt, and grins. 'I'm sorry I missed it,' he says. 'Must have been quite a show.'

Arthur downs the rest of his rum and Coke, and figures that he's not sixteen any more and Merlin is actually a _very_ good drummer and what the hell does Morgana know, anyway? 'I could put on a repeat performance if you like,' he says, raising an eyebrow.

One of Merlin's hands drops to play with Arthur's tartan-clad thigh. 'Do I get a front-row seat?' he murmurs. This is going fast.

Arthur likes fast - strathspey, reel, jig. He's got itchy fingers tonight.

'I was thinking a private show,' he says.

Merlin winks, and stands suddenly. 'Bathroom,' he says to Gawain, the lead tap, when the man cocks his head enquiringly. In order to get out from the table though, it's apparently necessary for Merlin to squeeze in front of Arthur and give him a very, _very_ good view.

Arthur just about manages to wait a safe and sensible five minutes before heading to the loos himself. If his pace is a little quick, it's not his fault.

***

In a remarkable about-face from the position of hatred Arthur has adopted towards the kilt for the past twelve years of his life, he is now a fan. A huge fan. He _loves_ kilts. Merlin's kilt in particular. How can you not love an item of clothing that allows you, when you push your leg slowly between someone else's, to feel the satin of their boxer shorts scrape over your skin? How can you not love an item of clothing that means no fumbling with buttons, no tripping, no telltale noise of keys in pockets hitting seedy bathroom tiles? Merlin swivelled their sporrans out of the way as Arthur backed him into a toilet stall, and that's enough, that's all they need.

'Fuck,' Merlin says, hitching himself up over Arthur's thigh, grinding down so Arthur can feel all that glorious heat and slip-slide of skin and cloth, 'Glad I didn't change into my jeans.'

'You like this?' Arthur asks, laminating Merlin back against the wall. There's a tendon that runs from collarbone to jawline that has taunted Arthur since the very first time he laid eyes on the tenor, and he's going to get his revenge. He buries his nose in the open collar of Merlin's shirt, licks up the sheen of sweat in the hollow of his throat, and then goes for the tendon with tongue and teeth and lips.

'Nnngh,' Merlin says, and his body's pressing against Arthur's hard now. Arthur has to plant his knee against the wall just to support him. 'No- no marks, Arthur, please, we've still got the rest of the contest-'

Arthur backs off with some reluctance, or at least, removes teeth from the equation. He still keeps mouthing though, the long column of muscle that backs that tendon, Merlin's adam's apple.

Meanwhile, their kilts are puddling together in a thick tartan cushion between them, and they push and push and push in glorious unison, in step the whole way.

'I still have my shoes on,' Merlin says, a bit wonderingly.

'You've still got your boxers on,' Arthur mutters in his ear.

'Doesn't matter,' Merlin retorts, and grabs Arthur's hand, leading it up and under. Merlin's boxers are soaked through, and Arthur gets his fingers tangled in the fastening, half on the slick, soft skin of Merlin himself and half on the damp fabric, and the noise Merlin makes forestalls Arthur from attempting to sort any of it out, because the noise Merlin makes is _desperate_ like the Gordian knot of underwear and Arthur's fingers is somehow his sexual Kryptonite, and anyway, by this point Merlin has managed to get his hands under _Arthur's_ kilt, and about the only thing Arthur can do now is move, thrust, grind into Merlin's hands, his magic, long-fingered, flourishing hands, all sinew and precision.

There's a sudden banging as the bathroom door opens, and Arthur is suddenly made aware that this is not, in fact, a private boudoir. It is a very public bathroom, and the doors and stall-walls are not very close to the floor, and there are very definitely two pairs of feet visible in this one, and he's still wearing his very distinctive ghillie brogues.

Someone moves across the room and enters another stall. Merlin's eyes are are tight shut, and his breath is now huffing out in tiny puffs past the lip worried between his teeth. Arthur is suddenly afraid Merlin is horrified, and wants to stop, and then he feels the trembling tension of the man under his hands, and realises.

'You like this,' Arthur murmurs, repeating himself, running his nose teasingly up the line of Merlin's throat and lipping under his ear. 'C'mon, Merlin.'

The noise of taps running and the hand-dryer whirring cover the noise of Merlin as Arthur licks his adam's apple and manages to get four fingers into his boxer shorts, and Arthur hopes whoever it was that came in is really oblivious or, for preference, stone deaf, because otherwise the strained panting that Arthur will insist under oath if necessary is entirely Merlin's is really, really audible.

Arthur's mouth finds Merlin's when he starts to feel he's about to go over, his fingers tighten and Merlin's as well, and just as the world is starting to fuzz out from lack of oxygen (and yet he can't bring himself to pull away from that mouth, that _mouth_ ), there's a flood of hot over his hand, and that does it.

Merlin's forehead is warm and his hair is curled into damp, sweaty locks where he's resting against Arthur's shoulder.

'Here, let me-' Arthur starts, attempting to lean Merlin against the wall and fish for a handful of toilet paper. Another virtue of the kilt is that all the mess is on the underside,gross, but invisible. Nevertheless, Arthur mops up what he can.

Merlin is rearranging Arthur's sporran while Arthur is attempting to wipe up the interior of Merlin's kilt, until they realise this is not the most efficient way of going about things, and swap.

'Is this going to be awkward now?' Merlin asks quietly. Arthur looks up at the tenor's worried expression, lips too pink, hair out of place, and decides he won't let it be awkward. He leans in and kisses Merlin on the end of his nose, feeling oddly fond.

'No,' he says. 'Unless you're talking about next time Morgana sees us.'

Merlin blushes. 'Oh fuck.'

Walking out of that bathroom into a pub full of their pipeband is possibly the worst Walk of Shame Arthur has ever had the misfortune to participate in. Morgana's right eyebrow achieves orbit, Gwen is laughing into her pint, and Arthur thanks whatever gods may be smiling down upon him that Uther always gets an early night before the street march, because he has a funny suspicion that he doesn't look quite as nonchalant as he's trying to.

They sit. There is suddenly a bloom of casual conversation.

When Morgana plonks another pint of Guinness down in front of him, Arthur drinks it wordlessly.

***

The next day is a series of impressions made whilst operating entirely on autopilot and through a thick fog of hangover.

The street march _hurts_ , loudly and rhythmically. Arthur has to change feet about seven times because he keeps getting out of step, which is extremely embarrassing. He manages to turn the wrong way during fall-out, as well.

He plays Merlin's tenor drum for the massed bands and tries not to wince every time they do a right shoulder-right shoulder and he passes Merlin and has to listen to that particular strangled-cat noise that only a hungover drummer can manage to coax out of a set of bagpipes.

They win grade four, by some miracle. By this point in time Arthur has been standing for so long that he can't feel his feet.

When they get back to the motel, Morgana has left a note on his bedside table.

 _I'm never taking you to Guinness Club again._

PS: Dry-clean your kilt before Dad sees it, you slag.

PPS: If I hear one more joke about fingering, rhythm or technique, I'm drowning you both.

***

GLOSSARY:

 **Piper:** Someone who plays the bagpipes. In this fic, someone who specifically plays the Highland bagpipes, as opposed to the Irish (or Union or Uillean) pipes, or the various other forms of bagpipes found all over the world. (Bagpipes are just so awesome that everyone invented their own kind).

 **Side-drummer:** (a.k.a 'side') Sides play the side-drum - a harness-carried double-snared hard-skinned drum that sounds, when you bang it, like someone bashing a jar of ball-bearings up against a brick wall. Very loud, very sharp, very dramatic. Side-drumming is extremely technical and relies on split-second timing and near-telepathy from the members of the section.

 **Tenor drummer:** (a.k.a. 'tenor') Tenors play tenor drums - a medium-sized harness-carried, soft-skinned drum without snares. They play them using 'timp sticks' - fluffy-headed drumsticks. They also have special ways of whirling these around for decoration and emphasis - this is called 'flourishing'. Flourishing is often judged separately as part of competitions. Despite being known occasionally as timps, tenor drums are not proper timpani or kettledrums.

 **Bass drummer:** The drummer who plays the biggest drum - the bass-drum. The bass keeps everyone else in time, but may syncopate and do other interesting things with the rhythm. The bass drummer takes their time from the pipe major, who will generally continue to keep time with their foot all the way through a performance. The bass drummer and the tenors form the 'bass section'.

 **Pipe-major:** The lead piper. In charge of making sure all of the pipers are in tune (although in large bands this duty may be handed over to someone else), and keeping the pipers in time (tapping his/her foot), and (in concert with the lead tap) selecting the music, and teaching all the pipers the music, and generally herding them around.

 **Drum-major:** Not actually the lead drummer. Instead, the guy who walks at the front with the big stick. In charge of making sure everyone marches in step and that the whole band looks smart.

 **Lead tap:** The lead side-drummer. In charge of keeping the sides in time. Generally plays 'lead', i.e., the whole of the drum score - other side drummers will play 'chips' - bits of the drum score where they join in.

 **Drones:** The long pipes that rest on the piper's shoulder. Each drone (the longest is the bass drone, the other two are tenor drones) contains a single reed which produces one monotonous tone when the pipes are being played. Making sure your drones are in tune with each other (and therefore not making a horrible wah-wah-wah noise) is probably the most time-consuming part of playing the bagpipes.

 **Blowpipe:** The pipe by which the piper blows air into the bag. Generally fitted with a flap-valve so that air can't come back out that way.

 **Chanter:** The pipe that the piper uses to actually play a tune - has a double-reed in it and eight holes akin to those of a recorder. Played completely differently though. The bagpipes are capable of nine notes, from low G to high A, and are in the key of B flat.

 **Canmore bag:** A synthetic pipe bag with a zip in it. I won't go into the details. People argue about the advantages of synthetics over hide bags. This isn't the place for that argument.

 **Drone-stoppers:** Devices to make your drones cut out cleanly and not produce that dying-swan squawk that causes judges to frown and make unhappy comments on their marking schedules.

 **Waxed hemp:** String coated in wax. Bagpipes have lots of interlocking wooden parts that need to be able to slide past each other but also need to grip each other, and as wood expands and contracts due to temperature and moisture, waxed hemp is used in various quantities to compensate for the wood's expansion or contraction. Waxed hemp is the pipeband equivalent of duct-tape. It holds the universe together.

 **Circle:** Literally, a big circle of paint in which the band stands when playing at a competition. There are two concentric circles - the band stands within the inner one and the judges are allowed no closer than the outer one.

 **Point A:** The point at which the band gets into formation in order to march into the circle.

 **Set:** Also known as an MSR - 'march, strathspey, reel', i.e., three tunes (a march, a strathspey and a reel) played as a 'bracket'. This is the more formal of the two competition brackets.

 **Medley:** The second competition bracket, made up of a set of tunes chosen by the band. Has both a maximum and minimum time limit. Generally longer and less formal than the set. The set and medley together are scored separately, and the band with the highest aggregate score wins.

 **Street march:** The other judged event at a competition - a course is marked out around local streets and bands play a bracket of marches while, well, marching around it. This is where the drum major comes into their own, doing mace-tossing and directing the marching, which is judged.

 **Massed bands:** All the bands at the competition form up, each band in single file, and march up and down a field for some interminable amount of time playing some tune or bracket of tunes that is judged common enough that everyone knows it (generally this will be Scotland the Brave, Amazing Grace, or the infamous and dreaded 'When The Battle's O'er/Green Hills of Tyrol/Colin's Cattle' 3/4 retreats combo). Loved by crowds, who generally don't really get that the bands are a) hungover, b) swapping instruments, c) drinking while playing (in the case of the drummers) and d) just generally not taking the whole thing seriously.

 **Tuning:** Three-quarters of your life if you are a piper (no, really, you have to turn up to contests four hours early in order to TUNE. Or so my pipe-major always insists). Basically, making sure you're in tune. With four reeds, as you can imagine, this is tricky.

 **Right shoulder-right shoulder:** A marching maneouvre whereby instead of the whole band turning at once (this is called a 'wheel'), each single file turns aroud and threads back down between the others - essentially the band turns around in its own space while marching.

 **Fall-out:** A supposedly disciplined way of a formed-up set of people getting un-formed-up - on the command, 'Band, dissss- MISS!', everyone turns smartly to the right, takes one step, and then moves off however they like. In practice, varies from military precision to, basically, chaos as everyone forgets which way they're supposed to turn, or misses the cue.

 **Dress/uniform:** What the band wears. Made up of:

\- Glengarry: A hat. Other hats worn by pipebands can include tam o'shanters and feather bonnets, but the glengarry is most common on 'military-style' uniforms and is the least annoyingly fussy to wear.

\- Ghillie brogues/Brogues: Shoes, in a word.

\- Sporran: Pouch on a chain belt that hangs down in front of your kilt. For keeping loose change, cellphone, hip-flask of alcohol, spare corks and spare waxed hemp in.

\- Kilt: Twelve feet of tartan woollen uncomfortableness. Hot, itchy, draughty and downright annoying. Believe me, anyone wearing nothing under their kilt is someone who's a) not worn a kilt before and b) has only read about 'real Scotsmen' in books. Real Scotsmen wear underwear, because dude. Wool is *itchy*.

\- Jacket: Do I need to explain this?

\- Hose: A.k.a. woolly socks.

\- Sgian dubh: Short knife, often with a fancy stone in the hilt, worn in the socks. Pronounced 'Skee-an doo'.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Just in case you were wondering. 'Real' Scotsmen do not go pantsless beneath their kilts. Because 'real' Scotsmen are aware of the scourge of chafing. Merlin and Arthur wear boxers because they are sensible and do not wish to chafe.


End file.
